Of Worth Unknown
by Eladriewen
Summary: {AU} Boromir & Faramir in Minas Tirith, but something happens. Denethor, who has never looked kindly upon his youngest, suddenly sees him for what he is. Or was.


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Author's Note: _Thank you to Quiet Infinity, aka SarahMarie1 (Honestly, what would I do without you?) for your encouragement on this story, and for helping in it's editing. _

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One More Thing: _Thank you **Mercury Gray** for pointing out my error. I've currently corrected it. Thank you also **Quiet Infinity** for your review. And, the reviewer known only as **Rachel**, if that's all you have to say, you've hardly offended me. ^_^_

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"Yet between the brothers there was great love, and had been since childhood, when Boromir was the helper and protector of Faramir. No jealousy or rivalry had arisen between them since, for their father's favour or for the praise of men. It did not seem possible to Faramir that any one in Gondor could rival Boromir, heir of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower; and like of mind was Boromir. Yet it proved otherwise at the test..."

~J.R.R. Tolkien

~The Return of the King: Appendix A; The Stewards

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Features: Faramir, Boromir, Denethor, and Original Characters.

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Chapter: One and One Alone

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Of Worth Unknown

By: Eladriewen

Darkness greeted Gondor upon the first of a new month. The sun shone, just slightly, over the dark mountains that loomed in the east. She seemed to tremble at the sight of the black lands below her, and those who watched from the towers of Minas Tirith trembled as well. Some marveled that Her light was never sucked away into the dark lands to leave Gondor barren of light, and taking with Her what little hope was left to man in his losing battle. But the Sun rose victorious over the Ephel Duath, and shone with renewing and vigilance over the ruined Osgiliath.

Captain-General of the White Tower, Boromir, heir of Denethor, cast his own vigilance out toward the planes of North Ithilien where the Rangers were returning from Henneth Annûn. He knew they had taken momentary shelter in Greywood, and would be coming again through Stonewall Valley. Word had reached the General that they had left some three days hence. Rangers were quick to travel long distances, and Henneth Annûn was far indeed. But those in Osgiliath had expected them upon noon of yesterday, and they were already a great many hours late. 

Stoically, Boromir had told his men that they, the Rangers, had been slowed by weather. The previous morning Gondor had been hit with a great rain storm, producing large amounts of lightening and thunder, and had even brought a few mudslides to Emyn Arnen. Yet few of the instances were serious, and no life had been lost. It seemed a logical excuse, but Boromir's heart quivered when the sun had set with no sign of their approaching company. He sat now with his eyes downcast, waiting to hear the famed whistle of the Rangers echo over the grasslands to announce their coming. Yet the plains stayed silent, save for the whispering of the winds and the simple talk of soldiers in courtyards below. Heavy hearted, Boromir sighed. It seemed that this day would not bring sight of the Rangers.

The gentle sound of booted feet from a soldier came to his ears as he sat. He did not turn to acknowledge their presence, but he knew well who's steps they were.

"You say weather, but their are lines of worry etched upon your face." Observed Parn from his place a few meters away from his General. He approached Boromir from behind and rested an assuring hand upon the man's shoulder. 

"Is it such a terrible thing I subject myself to?" Asked Boromir, standing from his makeshift bench and then leaning out over the stone wall that guarded against falling.

"Concern for your brother?" Asked Parn. Boromir nodded, his hair falling in broken strands across his paling features. "I think not my lord. You are close in age, and close of heart. Your concern is not ill felt."

"I had thought they would return today."

"One never knows. The weather may have slowed them, or perhaps there were complications on the journey."

"I do not like to think that they were attacked." said Boromir with a tremor in his heart. 

"Faramir is a wise man, my Lord. I do not think that they would have walked openly into danger without knowing." Parn bowed and took his leave, allowing Boromir to tend to his own thoughts. 

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It was not until the evening, when Boromir had laid down his head for some ease of mind and body, that he heard the first chirps of the Ranger call from the plains past Osgiliath. It seemed as though it were nothing more than a longing echo in his mind, and at first Boromir dismissed it as such. But the second and third calling were more perceptible to his ears and with excitement he leapt from his bed and abandoned his quarters to see that a great many men were doing the same. Parn joined Boromir's side with a smile as grand as the arcs of the Anduin.

"You see, Lord Boromir. They have come at last. Late still, but here."

Boromir then turned and gripped Parn's shoulders with a look of satisfaction and relief. "I would have my brother late any day, but to never see him again would be a terrible thing indeed." 

With the grace of a young child awaiting a grand gift, Boromir flung himself through the crowd. In the largest of Osgiliath's clear courtyards he could see already brothers welcoming brothers, friends welcoming friends, fathers welcoming sons, and sons welcoming fathers. Faramir, however, could not be seen in the growing torchlight, and again a feeling of concern grasped Boromir's heart. But in the same likeness, a hand grasped his shoulder warmly and pulled him around. The warm smile of a man four years younger shone through the red and orange light around them, and a hearty laugh frightened away the cold of the night.

"Are you looking for me?" asked Faramir.

"For two days and a night." Boromir answered, pulling his brother into an embrace that might have shattered him were he any lesser a man. "What kept you?"

"Complications." Faramir answered, pulling away and dragging his brother from the crowd. Boromir noticed then the large cut across his temple, and a slight limp due to an injury on his right foot. "We lost a small number of men on our way here, and the weather as you know, hardly lent us a helping hand in our journey."

"How many men?"

"Only three, but good men they were. We had to trek back through Stonewall Valley and exit into the Greywood once more." Faramir turned, his eyes sincere and hard, gazing seriously into those of his brother's. "There is a large company of Uruk-Hai at the mouth of the Stonewall."

"How large?"

"A few hundred, but that was enough to outnumber thirty five rangers."

"How then did you escape?"

Faramir sighed. "We had to flee."

Both had their eyes on the celebrating masses in the courtyard. They had worked themselves up to a tall point over their heads without any noticing. Boromir sympathized for his brother, knowing that, though he hated battle, he truly detested running from a fight.

"You did what was needed of you." Boromir informed him with a smile. "There was no ill in it."

"Tell that to father." Faramir stated.

Boromir sighed and placed a loving hand upon Faramir's shoulder. "You needn't worry for father's unfair judgments. You know better in your own heart than any other what is right and what is wrong. Your wisdom is hailed among the ranks of our men. None of them think ill of you for it. And it is better to run and fight another day, dear brother, than to throw your life heedlessly away in a battle you know you cannot win." 

Faramir smiled weakly, though did not meet his brother's eyes. He did not say then what was in his heart, but Boromir knew it and felt it in his own, yet said nothing in hope to spring the ill mood that now ailed his brother.

With the fiery glints of light now gone from them, all Boromir and Faramir had to view each other and all else with was the light of the moon and the grand collection of stars that lie above their heads. Yet they paid those little attention, walking calmly among the parapets, happy to have some time away from the men they had been commanding for the past month and a half. 

"It does me good to see you," Boromir stated as their eyes fell over Minas Tirith in the darkened distance. "I find it insufferable when father has you away for so long. There's no one interesting to talk to."

Faramir laughed, though brittle it was. 

"It's hardly more fun to be living in the middle of a wooded area where no other life exists. The nearest living beings are those we are required to kill before they reach Gondor's borders."

Boromir laughed, and with resentment toward the White Towers they turned and continued their walk through the parapets. Boromir once again noticed his brother's cushioned limp.

"And what injury ails you?" He asked as they walked.

"Nothing that is too severe." Faramir answered immediately. "I'll be fine."

"Were you injured at Stonewall?"

"It is nothing severe." Faramir fought back his brother's concerns, though did so gently. Boromir bowed his head and swore not to say another word, though his concerns lingered. 

"Father has called us to meet with him tomorrow in the tower." He said as they descended once again into the fiery glow of the courtyard. 

"That I know." Faramir stated, graciously accepting a cup of ale being handed him by Mablung. "What is it he wishes to discuss?"

"I know not." Boromir answered. "But for now I'm not concerned with it. Let us celebrate your return and speak of happier things."

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"And what is this, the cause of your tardiness?" Asked Denethor. His face was pressed in bitter wrinkles, and his nose sneered with contempt at his youngest child and son. "There had better be good reason for it, lest you wish to evoke my anger further."

Boromir in his anger stepped forward. "Father, he was delayed-"

"I did not ask for the part he spoke to you, Boromir." sneered the steward. "I doubt that what was said is worthy of an excuse."

"They were ambushed father!" Boromir continued to argue on his brother's behalf. "There was-"

"Boromir! Do not have me dismiss you from this meeting!" Denethor yelled. Faramir pulled his brother back calmly and stepped forward.

"My men and I were delayed, father." Faramir began with a light voice and heavy heart. His gaze did not meet Denethor's immediately, and when it did, it was not willingly. "The weather-"

"I thought our Rangers were trained for such conditions." Said Denethor bitterly. "Have you been abandoning your training as well as your duties?"

"Father," Boromir interjected, but a stern hand raised from Denethor silenced him.

"The terrain was unbearable with many of our men in the conditions that they were in. When we reached Stonewall Valley there was a troop of Uruks settled in it's mouth. They outnumbered us by the hundreds my Lord. We had to flee and retrace our steps, back through Graywood and then through Ithilien."

"What was your number in Stonewall?"

"Thirty five, maybe forty." Faramir answered. "We lost three in an ambush, but the rest of us were able to escape, though we were separated for many hours. After being reunited in Graywood, we trekked back toward Ithilien and raced the plains to reach Osgiliath as swiftly as possible."

"And why is it that you fled, Faramir? Forty against one hundred does not sound so impossible."

"Our men were not in any condition for combat, father." Faramir was near pleading. Boromir's contempt for Denethor, though rare such occasions were, grew in the last few moments to a surprising amount. But the words that echoed coldly through the White Hall of the Steward shattered his heart.

"You dishonor your father, your brother, and yourself." Denethor spat. "Many men in Osgiliath fight though injured, or ill, or worse. Were you not such a laggard you might have defeated them easily. Instead you come whimpering to me with these tales of being incapable of battle." Denethor stood and approached Faramir, his potent revulsion shining brilliantly within his black eyes. "Away from my sight." 

With a crushed sigh, Faramir turned on his heel and walked heavily from the presence of his father and brother. 

"Should you meet up with stronger forces again, Faramir, I would have you throw yourself upon them no matter their number. Do something once that would give your life meaning, and your meaning an honorable one."

Faramir did not turn back as he exited the hall. His steps were heavy, and his poise, though broken in pride, held a great deal of resentment toward his father and himself. Boromir ran after him then, heeding not the words of Denethor, and caught Faramir in the courtyard standing before the White Tree. 

Both bore the simple garb of a soldier, wearing no heavy armor and carrying with them no grand weapons, but the White Guard knew them as the sons of the Steward, and bowed in respect when they appeared.

"Faramir!" Boromir cried out across the courtyard. The younger of the two turned his head to acknowledge his brother's call, but did not respond otherwise. Descending the steps, Boromir stood beside his brother, his face wearing sympathy and guilt. "Faramir, you should not listen to his ravings. He knows nothing of your honor or your valor."

"He does not need to." responded Faramir with a distressed sigh. "No matter what I do, he will never be pleased with me." He moved to take his leave, but Boromir seized him and held his ear close so that he might speak. 

"You know your worth to your men and to your brother. Your name is hailed in Gondor, even if father does not believe it so. You are a great man and a hero, Faramir, and father will know it before the end." Faramir then pulled away, the sorrow still lingering in his eyes. It hurt Boromir strongly to know the anguish his brother faced, but to know that there was nothing he could do or say to ease it panged him more.

"I will take my leave to Osgiliath." said Faramir at last. "In a few days time I will return to Henneth Annûn with my men." Boromir frowned, an expression of begging on his softened features. "I will wait there until you return to see me off, if you choose. After that I will contact you prior to our next return." Faramir bowed his head respectfully and then left, Boromir watched him leave, broken hearted and despairing. 

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Finishing a minor washing, Faramir stood and observed the sky. Osgiliath seemed so much more peaceful than the White Tower to the west. A ruined city though it was, the Fortress of Stars still held the grace and beauty of the Eldar days when Elendil and his sons had first founded it. But Faramir, son of Denethor, Captain of the Rangers felt no peace in his heart. He wondered if perhaps throwing himself upon a feast of enemies would bring happiness not only to his father, but peace to himself. Yet Faramir knew in his heart he would never do such a thing, for the next life gave no honor to those who threw away their lives heedlessly. 

Faramir knew his strength was not in battle, but he did as was required of him, and there were few who believed the captain incompetent in his work. 

With a deep sigh, he cast his eyes to the nighttime clouds. Mordor rang a deep boom that shattered the sky like lightening bolts, and the world trembled as it boasted of it's immeasurable power. But the great roar of the fiery mountain was more than a sound to create terror in the hearts of men, it announced a great force that was now driving forward from the east.

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"Captain Faramir! Come quick!" cried Arod from the south tower. With the swiftness of the wind Faramir appeared at his side within moments. His knowledgeable, keen eyes surveying the lands and ever darkening skies to the east.

"More come by the moment," Faramir whispered has he surveyed the mounting numbers. "Have they not yet had their fill?"

"They'll not cease till we lie dead." Answered Dolleth from his side. "And Osgiliath in ruins." Faramir nodded, turning his head to face the men who had gathered in the shadow of their esteemed leader. 

"We are not prepared for an attack, sir." Arod whispered into the captain's ear. "We will need assistance." 

Faramir reached out and seized his kinsman and friend around the arm to guide him out of hearing range of those who had assembled at the tower pinnacle to watch for the approaching force. 

"Take my horse." commanded Faramir, his mouth pressed close against Arod's ear. "Ride to Minas Tirith. Stop for nothing. Call upon my brother. He will have Parn and the White Guard assembled immediately and at our aid in less then an hour's time."

"Sir, we have not that sort of time."

"Do what you can, Arod." said Faramir. Already his faithlessness was shining in his eyes, but he did well to hide it from his men. "Tell Boromir we will hold them as long as we can. Go! Go Arod!" He pushed Arod away, and the man bound for the horse stables as would a freed dog without looking back. 

"Do you believe he will make it, my Lord?" asked Erynon.

"He is all that we here have, Erynon. I sincerely hope so." Faramir then turned to his men. All looked expectantly to him, their eyes glistening with fear. Many of the men before him were twice his elder, and still they named him their unquestionable leader. It was touching, and at the same time harrowing for the young soldier who cared not for hand to hand combat. Faramir regained his composure, and with a face similar of Boromir's unshakable confidence, he spoke; "Whatever fate awaits us, we will _not-let-Osgiliath-fall!_"

"OSGILIATH!" The men resounded.

"Osgiliath!" Faramir roared back at them. "For Gondor!"

"FOR GONDOR!"

At that moment, a deafening shriek filled the sky. All looked up, and then scattered as the Witchking and his mount hurled past the south tower. 

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"Boromir! A man rides to the gates!" Yelled Parn from the parapets near the entryway.

"Who is it?" Asked Boromir, a wide smile on his strong and handsome features. "Is it Faramir? Have they run out of ale already?" he joked, smiling brightly for he had recognized the horse even from being so many meters down. But when he saw that the man in the saddle was not his brother, Boromir's heart became heavy with dread.

"Where is my brother?" he asked bitterly. "Where is Faramir?"

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"Why did he not ride out himself?" Asked Boromir as he pushed his way through the throng of preparing soldiers. "Faramir-"

"He commanded that I ride out, my Lord." explained Arod who trembled like a dog being beaten by his master. "He commanded I take his horse and meet you here. He said to send the White Guard."

Boromir reached the horse stables and began to saddle his stallion. "What is the force that assails them?"

"Two hundred strong my lord, and the Nazgul king flies with them."

"The Witchking?" Asked Boromir, turning from his horse. Arod nodded. It was Parn who spoke then.

"They'll not live to see us arrive, my Lord."

Boromir looked up, a bitter frown upon his face. "We will meet them in Osgiliath. Faramir will prevail." he turned to continue saddling his horse. "He has not let me, nor my father down before. Faramir will not do so now."

Arod and Parn cast glances to the floor before setting off on arranging the troops. Boromir said a silent prayer in the stables that he would find Faramir, if no one else, alive and safe.

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"Hallvaethor! Arm the cannon! Duinfain, align the archers on the west bridge! We must drive them back until the White Guard comes!" yelled Faramir. 

"They're marching now, sir!" yelled Aranel from the east flank. "I see the flag! And the General is at their center!"

Faramir cast his gaze out toward the fields that separated Minas Tirith from Osgiliath. "They've thirteen miles yet before they reach us." Faramir yelled. "Don't fall into hope's treachery yet and think that we've won! Keep fighting men! Duinfain! Get your men ready!"

Duinfain, a well built officer in Gondor's army, saluted and announced the first volley. It rained steadily down upon the first advancing force of orcs, but the second came faster than expected, and Duinfain and his men did not have time to load their bows. 

"Duinfain! Duinfain!" Faramir yelled, running across the bridge to assist the assault. Yet as he reached the midpoint of the bridge, he was cut down by an orc behind him. Duinfain saved him from the blow that would surely end his life, but he would be unable to save himself. The Witchking's mount carried him away beyond sight. Faramir could only watch in horror. 

"Lord Faramir!" yelled Aranel from the eastern flank. "Faramir!"

The captain stood and turned his head, but within seconds an arrow hit him full in the chest. He realized then and too late that when he had been washing he had not replaced his breastplate. Cursing himself, Faramir pulled his mind away from the pain, and sent his sword cascading over the necks of two orcs, severing their heads immediately from their bodies. A second arrow hit him in the side then, and Faramir, falling upon one knee, cried out in agony

For one exhausting moment, he might have allowed himself to fall still to the stone beneath him. His eyes closed and his head turned to face the noonday sun, and as he did so, he heard echo from the plains the mighty horn that Boromir carried with him. It was a beacon of hope that assistance was coming, that soon he would stand beside his brother in victory again. Gasping for breath and straining against his darkening eyesight, Faramir lifted himself up once more, killing everything in his path. But alas, for a third arrow, from an unknown bow, hit him once more in the chest, and Faramir, his strength and blood nearly spent, went down.

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"Faramir!" Aranel yelled from the bridges. As he turned his head away from the sight of his captain falling in battle, he caught the eye of the General Boromir. He waved his hands, yelling for help and assistance upon the bridge. Boromir yelled and called his men at last to the bridge. The general then dismounted and joined in the battle, Parn and the White Guard in his shadow.

"FOR GONDOR!" He yelled. 

"FOR GONDOR!!" Replied the guard, and together they joined forces with Faramir's men to save Osgiliath once again.

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The sun has passed more than halfway through the sky when the last orc had been slain or driven away. The men rejoiced in their victory, congratulating their leader and thanking the Valar each in turn. But Boromir's happiness soon turned to concern, for an hour after their hailed victory he had not seen his brother, whom should have been the first face to greet him, not out of properness or custom, but simply out of love and appreciation. That was how it had always been for Faramir and Boromir, sons of the Steward. One brother always greeted the other with a happiness to see the other, no matter the circumstances. 

Boromir turned and fled the celebrating masses, searching out friends in the crowds. His eyes first fell upon Tólaes. Grasping his shoulder, he turned the man and whispered into his ear of Faramir and where he might be.

"I've not seem him, my Lord." replied Tólaes with a deep frown upon his dark features. "I shall call upon rangers and we will search for him."

"Thank you." Said Boromir with great relief.

"Parn went to find him also my Lord. Perhaps they're speaking with each other."

"Perhaps, but I would much like to see him. Do what you will for me, Tólaes."

"Yes, my Lord."

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Boromir had with him a small number of men when he set out from the main courtyard where celebrations were still being held. Their job was to search for the injured, and leave the dead. 

"Have you any hope, my Lord?" Asked Abadenglir behind him. "To find living in the wake of such an attack as they suffered."

"The men under Faramir's command are made of things stronger than stone, Abadenglir." Boromir answered, though his voice trembled. "And Faramir is made of greater things than his sires. He is here. I know it."

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For many hours, Boromir and his men searched the rubble, and every man that they pulled out from beneath stone or enemy was as lifeless as what had surrounded and buried him. 

"My brother, where are you? Call out to me!" Boromir pleaded, his eyes brimming with tears. His worry grew with the numbers of the dead, and with each new tally, a grain of his hope vanished. At last he heard a familiar voice, though not Faramir's, call to him from overhead. The General looked up to see Parn, graven faced and pale against the evening sky...

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"Lord Boromir," called a voice from the parapets above. Parn's shadow fell over their heads with his eyes cast down. But they did not fall upon the soldiers, they looked away and over the stone bridge that lie beneath his feet. Boromir with fear in his voice answered back, and Parn responded with trepidation and a heavy note of sorrow in his words. "Lord Boromir, I have found the captain."

"Where hath you seen him?" Boromir commanded of him then.

"He lie here, nay but a few inches from mine own foot. He moves not, sir."

Not a man among the throng moved save Boromir, who rushed from the floor to the stairs as though wings had grown from his feet. And when he reached Parn's side he saw a score of honest men cut down in the fire of arrows and the tarry of swords. Parn spoke soft words of despair and regret, but Boromir heard not his words. The young Lord of Minas Tirith fell at his knees to behold his brother on the parapet, his eyes staring sightless over the plains of Gondor that lie just before him. Many an arrow stood deep in his unarmored chest, and a thin trail of blood flowed from his mouth and down his chin through the thin, young beard that he had grown in his few years of manhood.

"Faramir?" he whispered, taking his brother's paled face and cupping it in his dirty hands, the chin rested in the center of his collected palms, and the thumb caressing each cheekbone with tender care. With desperate attempts to slow his rapidly beating heart, Boromir leaned close to his brother's ear and whispered familiar words that neither Parn nor those below could hear. When Boromir pulled away to find his brother remaining silent and cold as the stone around them, he bent his head toward the setting sun.

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And his heart shattered as glass when cast upon stone. And there would be no remaking of it, for what shards that could still be traced of it, if even by elven eye alone, were gathered away upon the winds of war and woe, never again to be recovered; even for the sakes of love or joy. And it was recorded in the books of minstrels for years passed as the day the sons of Gondor fell. One from wounds, one from woe, and Ecthelion's glory burned out in the sunlight, snuffed as a candle when all night's business has gone away.

"Where has gone the brother whom I didst love?" wept Boromir upon his knees. "The winds have taken him beyond my recall, and have stolen with him much already of my fond memories of him." And looking to the sky he spoke "Heed no longer, my brother, to the call of the War Horns rolling over Gondor's plains, nor the commands of your Brother and General. For ye have passed into peace, a realm into which those here do now desire also." 

And alas, it was not rivers, but a single tear alone that fell from his eyes, for all else had dried up within him and withered away to nothing. And Boromir was as a walking shadow in the wake of his brother's coffin as it was carried before their father. Many strong men offered him their arm in his walk, but he refused them boldly, standing proud in the memory of his brother.

Many who saw him then agreed that this man of Minas Tirith was made of things stronger than the very stone that guarded their city; bearing a will greater then perhaps even the line of Isildur. And it was hoped in the years to come Boromir, son of Denethor, would rise to be not Steward of Gondor, but King. 

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"In the Halls of his forefathers shall he rest forever." Spoke Denethor. His face was as stone, and his eyes just as hardened. The people of Minas Tirith believed this a stoic mask to hide the pain from his losses, but within Denethor, son of Ecthelion, knew that his heart was hardened in the liking of the greatest of stones toward Faramir, youngest son of Gondor and Captain of the Guard. "His deeds, though few, were...honorable. May his flying soul find the Eldar in their distant Halls, and may his eyes fall upon The White City with fortune."

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Boromir sat at the decorated bed where Faramir lay, his shoulders slumped like the White Tree in the courtyard. Though it could not be seen or heard, tears fell from the proud man's eyes, and sobs wracked his heart and bones. The Steward Denethor reached out and clasped a strong hand upon his firstborn's shoulder, and he spoke soft words in his ears. But though these words were soft, they came to Boromir as the hiss of a serpent in tall grass. Camouflaged with misery in the surrounding gloom, Denethor strode in the halls as a black ghost who truly held no regret or sorrow in the passing of his son, whom he should have loved as no other.

"How is it that a father can weep no tears for his son?" asked Boromir who's tears had not yet ceased. Denethor's face played a hurt expression, yet no tears fell from his eyes, and no new lines of grief had etched themselves in the stone of his hardened face. 

"My son," he answered then, kneeling before the seat of Boromir. "Even though thou hast not seen me weep, such does not mean that I do not shed tears. I too hold grief in Faramir's passing."

"Grief?" Asked Boromir, his eyes never meeting those of his father's. "You speak of grief, yet I hear none in your voice. I see naught but hardness in your face that is etched not from grief or sorrow. I would not be so bold, dear father, to admit that it is satisfaction that I find within your soul, but what I see is not distress. Your steps which should be heavy are light as a child's, and your voice which should be broken resonates as strongly as ever. Tears you shed not, for I would see it in your eyes. Now tell me father and tell me true, had you any love for my brother whom was also your son?"

And Denethor stood as a statue before his son, graven faced and jaw drawn tight like a rope with no slack. A mad fire burned then in the empty Steward's eyes, and a snarl laid plainly upon his thin lips. What color that was in his features dried into a whiteness much as the likes of snow, and Denethor was as a snarling beast before his firstborn son.

"I loved Faramir." he whispered in temperament. "He was my son, and I recognize that now. But he was not my firstborn. He was of little use compared to you."

It seemed then that all the arrows of Mordor had broken Boromir's heart as his father confessed that he had not loved his children equally. Boromir knew his strength had outmatched that of his brother, but Faramir's intellect and will were far greater than Boromir knew he could ever hope to be. That was why he loved his brother, among so many other reasons. 

"You would never know what Faramir was, father." Said Boromir with much boldness. "He was a man of honor. Your people respected him and looked up to him. Men many times his elder held his word in high regard." Boromir shook his head, eyes still fixed sternly upon his father. "You would never know the honor he had among our people. He was more than you knew, father. He was more then I am now."

"You speak foolishness." Denthor hissed, like a serpent stepped upon in long grass. "Who was the General of my armies? Boromir, not Faramir, son of Denethor. Who was called upon by the Council of Elrond Halfelven to take part in the quest of our age? Boromir, not Faramir, son of Denethor. Who first regained Osgiliath from the enemy?"

"Faramir, son of Denethor." 

Upon this statement, Denethor laughed, although a frown of disgust was etched into the stony features of his face. "I would not conceive of such an idea."

"Conceive or hear what is your will, father, but 'twas Faramir who birthed the scheme to reclaim our ruined stronghold from the enemy. I merely lead our men into battle."

Upon this statement, Denethor frowned. He took his leave, parting eternally from the room that evening. Boromir then fell down upon his chair, and leaning forward, rested his brow upon his shaking hands. With none around he allowed himself at last to weep. 

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"What have I done to earn this punishment, my brother?" Asked Boromir. His own hand, pale as the snow and shaking as though its foundations were being shaken to the core, clasped Faramir's hand as if he were only ill. "Had I done something that angered you, could you not have just told me? Were it not for our father, would you have never thrown yourself upon Osgiliath without me by your side?" He bowed his head as weeping overtook him once more. "Could I have saved you from this fate, or at least shared it with you, Faramir you know that I would have." But there was no response from him, and Boromir in those moments let go of his strands of faith and hope, allowing them to fly away with his memories and the broken shards of his heart. 

As though he were a child, he rested his brow upon Faramir's cold hand and wept, never releasing it from his grip. "What sort of brother am I to allow my own flesh and blood to walk toward danger alone?" His eyes were closed with his brow still rested upon the cold and lifeless hand of his brother. Tears fell like rain drops upon the sheets that covered the motionless form, and there was no stopping it anymore. No words found his trembling lips, and with nothing left, and no apology worth uttering that came upon his tongue, he brought Faramir's cold hand to his lips and kissed it gently. The dirt and blood had been cleansed away from him before he had been laid within the chamber; and Boromir might have sworn for one moment, as the evening sunlight danced across the floor and bed, that Faramir was only sleeping.

A gentle wind swept through the chamber, gently tousling his hair. Three thin strands were blown over Faramir's relaxed face, hardly covering his handsome features, yet Boromir felt it necessary to brush them aside. His hand reached over, and with the gentle nature of a spring breeze to the newly blossoming flower, his fingers pushed the strands aside. He then began to soften Faramir's hair against the pillow. Afterward, with the greatest feats of his will spent, Boromir at last stood and kissed his brother's brow, then fell to his knees at the bedside weeping; while never having once let go of Faramir's hand.

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Bells tolled when the Captain's coffin was laid to rest in the tomb of his forefathers. Women wept and men saluted, but Boromir, General of Gondor's armies, brother and closest friend to the Captain, did not attend. To full of grief was his heart and too heavy was his head to hold high in his brother's well deserved honor. Instead he listened from the tall towers as the bells tolled, and sullen choirs like birds who have lost their homeland sang in the wake of the funeral trail.

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The sun had near set when the procession had finished, and the only figure left standing was Denethor, Steward of Gondor. His frown set firmly upon his graying face, the aging man looked then as an ocean weed amongst a maelstrom. His body and poise was weak, and his heart trembled. Standing beside the tomb of his youngest son, Denethor allowed at last his tears to fall. Though silent they were, great in number they were also. His fingers, like dead leaves in a winter's breeze, graced the stone and marble with love and affection, already he spotted dust upon it's surface and tenderly brushed it away. 

"My son," he whispered through his dry heaves and sobs. "I never loved you as I should have in life. Woe to me that I should see now how much I loved you in death. I beg you to have no ill feelings against an old fool who could not see your greatness." Then bowing his head, he spoke soft words of truth to his young son who lie still beneath the stone of Gondor's tombs. "I will not grant what love I owe you to your brother, for I have done that enough while you still breathed and walked beside me. I know not what to do but to weep. O Faramir! Why is it that we know not what we lose till it is truly gone from us? I have learned that best now, but learned it also too late. Won't you forgive this old man, my dear son, who saw not your worth?"

And with bowed head and broken spirit, Denethor allowed himself to fall upon the stone and weep, hands grasping at the stone that forever separated him from what he had never known he had.


End file.
